


That Fucking Guy

by knightlightly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anger, BFFs, Copious Amounts of Profanity, F/M, In Case The Title Hadn't Given That Away Already, M/M, More Women Please!, POV Outsider, Simone Knew First
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlightly/pseuds/knightlightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simone doesn’t have a problem. You have a problem. </p><p>No, actually, fuck that. </p><p>Simone has one problem, and it has two thumbs, a puck for a brain, and an inability to see what’s right in front of him. <em>Ugh.</em> </p><p>(Or, four times Jack Zimmerman made Simone want to punch something + one time he was kinda okay, or whatever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Fucking Guy

**Author's Note:**

> So I had the idea for this not too long after the [Post II: Frozen Four blog](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/133668848037) went up. I really love the idea that most of Samwell finds the hockey team weird/annoying, and Simone’s frustration with Jack seemed to fit that so perfectly. Then I started writing and Simone… well, she took on a life of her own haha. I realize this is probably way too long for a random Outsider POV fic but tbh I finished this awhile ago and I'm sick of staring/hacking at it, I'd rather move on to new projects. :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Simone is based on the perpetually grumpy curmudgeons in my life, and NOT meant to be indicative of someone with real anger management issues! If you're worried about being triggered, feel free to message me. 
> 
> Also, as most of this fic was written before the February Bitty Bomb, it operates under the assumption that Bitty and Jack don’t get together until _after_ Bitty's junior year. 
> 
> Rated Teen for Simone’s potty mouth.  
>   
>   
> Unbeta'd. Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

**I. FIRST GAME**

The first game Jack Zimmerman plays with the Falconers is a home game against Boston—and to the surprise of absolutely no one, the university makes it a Big Fucking Deal.

The school ropes off Lake Quad and projects the game on the giant screen that Student Affairs uses to host outdoor movie nights during shopping and Reading Week. They also set it up on the Quad like, a whole week early, so it’s impossible to fucking miss.

It’s a total PR grab, and it’s infuriating. The thing is, a part of Simone gets it—Samwell’s her school and all, but it’s a business, too. Which, yeah, fine, whatever, but this time, it means every time she crosses the Quad to get to get to her sociology class, she has to forge her way through the endless stream of slow-moving herds of Samwell tour groups, made up of perky student recruiters and dumb high schoolers and their parents _oohing_ and _aahing_ over the setup.

Simone wouldn’t be surprised if the night of the game they decided to added spotlights to swing around and alert the entire town: _Come see our Successful Happy Students watch our Most Successful Happy Alumni!_  

Fucking gross, if you ask her.

But no one asks. In fact, the only person to ask her anything is her roommate, Kelsey, who wants her to actually _go_ to the event.

“I would rather die,” Simone says. They’re getting ready and pre-gaming for the Sig Delta Tau party, squeezing together to use the one mirror in their room because the bitch next door has been “showering” in their shared bathroom with her boyfriend for like an hour.

A breathy moan drifts through the door and Simone reaches over to pound on it with the side of her fist. “I hope you both fucking drown!”

Kelsey giggles. “Jesus, shut up!” she says, but she doesn’t mean it. Kelsey thinks it’s hilarious when Simone yells at people.

“Gimme,” Simone says, as Kelsey passes over their room flask. She takes a sharp swig and grimaces at the taste of cheap vodka. “God, I fucking hate everyone.”

“The game could be fun,” Kelsey says.

“It’s a _school event_. It’s going to be lame.”

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” Kelsey tries again.

“Not me.”

“Come ooon,” Kelsey whines, pushing her.  

Simone pushes back and leans in to start on her eyeliner. “No! It’s going to end up a mess. It’s the hockey team’s golden boy, you know they’ll all be there. They’ll be super obnoxious and then probably pick a fight with the lacrosse team. _Again_.”

“Ugh,” Kelsey falls back on her bed and pouts. “Why do you hate the hockey team so much?”

“Um, excuse me? Everyone hates the hockey team. They’re the worst.”

Kelsey shrugs. “Yeah, so?” She holds out a hand for the flask. Simone rolls her eyes and tosses it on the sheets next to her. “But you hate them like, _so_ much.”

Simone scowls. “I do not.”

“You do, too.” Kelsey takes her sip, but then her eyes widen and she flails as she sits up. “Wait. You didn’t sleep with one of them, did you?”

“I did not! I have _taste_.”

Kelsey makes a face. “Hey, some of them are hot. Like that one blonde guy, the really tall one with the glasses? I’d Netflix and chill that any day.”

Simone rolls her eyes. 

“Even Jack Zimmermann was a little cute,” Kelsey says thoughtfully. “I mean, he’s graduated and all so there’s no chance, but it’d have been kinda cool to say you fucked someone famous, right?" 

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about Jack Zimmermann.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you had class with him last year!” Kelsey says, then squints at her. “Are you suuure you didn’t fuck him?”

“ _No!”_

“Me-lady doth protest too much me-thinks,” Kelsey sing-songs.

“I hate you,” Simone says. “And trust me, even if I wanted to— _which I did not_ —that guy is like, dense as a brick. You don’t even know.”

“Uh, deets?”

“How about we not?” 

“No way. I’m your bestie, you’re contractually obligated to tell me everything.”

“Fine,” Simone huffs and walks over to her closet, pushing clothes aside aggressively so the hangers screech on the bar. “It’s not like, _that_ bad. He just so obviously didn’t care about anything but hockey, right? It was embarrassing. If I never have to see another tasteful shot of the light over an ice rink, or that blonde teammate of his—what about this one?”

She yanks out a tight dress with low neckline and silvery sheen. Totally slutty, but Simone’s got curves and isn’t afraid to use them.

Kelsey scrunches her nose. “Too nice for the Sigs. Which teammate? The tall one?”

“No, I wish. It was some short kid. Cute, if you’re into that, I guess.” Simone stuffs the dress back in, pulls out a crop top and sheer skirt-shorts combo. Kelsey nods approvingly. “Anyway, Zimmermann took like a million fucking pictures of him, I swear I’ll be seeing this guy’s face in my sleep.”

Kelsey raises an eyebrow. “Sooo… _that’s_ why you hate him so much?”

Simone ignores her. “And you should have heard the critiques! He was always like, _oh, this is my team,_ and it’s like, _where the fuck is the rest of them, then?_ And we’re all trying to get him to admit it, this one guy is totally the focal point of your portrait set, right? But he’s oblivious, and I’m thinking, _if you love the guy?? So much?? Fucking fuck him already??_ ” Simone pauses as she whips her shirt over her head, then grabs the crop top. “I just don’t get sports, Kelsey. Like, these guys think it’s so fucking cool and macho to be up in each other’s business but then it’s all ‘no homo.’ Even at Samwell you can’t get away from it, and—oh! _Geese_.”

“…Geese?” Kelsey asks. Simone nods and shimmies into her skirt.

“In every assignment, Zimmermann had at least one picture of a goose! It was so weird. I mean, they were always _good_ pictures, but—actually, you know what? That’s annoying, too, because the guy’s like a hockey prodigy, right? Why the fuck does he have to be good at other shit, too?”

Kelsey snorts and Simone whirls around. “How do I look?” she asks, holding out her arms.     

“Hot as fuck,” Kelsey says, “I’m curious about the cute shortie, though. You should totally point him out to me, y’know, when we go to the game.”

“I swear to fucking god, Kelsey! I’m not going,” Simone says, “and I’m not changing my mind. Shut up about it.”

Another moan comes from the bathroom, and Simone pounds on the door again, “You shut up too!”

Kelsey bites her lip, obviously trying not to laugh. She stays quiet, thankfully, but only for a minute—then she says, “The softball team is gonna sneak in drinks?”

Simone frowns.

 

 

So she goes to the stupid game, whatever. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay, fuck you very much.

And it turns out to be not completely terrible. There’s a big area sectioned off up by the screen for people to watch the game, but the back area’s more for people just hanging out. They even have food trucks—which okay, Simone can admit, is actually like, the _opposite_ of terrible, because she’s not some skinny bitch who eats a piece of lettuce and calls it a day.

The point is, you can watch the game if you want, but you can do your own thing if you don’t, and Simone is definitely a _don’t_.

Kelsey immediately fucks off to make out with her boyfriend on a picnic blanket, but that’s okay, because she left Simone behind with the cute guy from her digital media seminar she’s wanted to bone since the semester started.

They’re hitting it off really well, both kinda tipsy but in a good way, when every word is flowy and easy and connecting just right—and Simone really needs to get laid, so no one better fuck this up for her.

Simone finds herself looking around for the hockey team, because everyone knows they’re the most likely candidates to take a good party and turn it into a hot mess. Kegsters or whatever they call them are only cool if you’re a bro or willing to say goodbye to your self-respect and sense of personal hygiene. Those guys mix their drinks in a freaking _bathtub,_ okay?

But the more Simone looks, the more she realizes she can’t tell where the team has camped out. Even when the Falconer’s score and Zimmermann’s face shows on screen, people cheer but there’s no hysterical screams. There’s no rough-housing, or tangle of overgrown man-children.

Simone guesses they could be scattered through the crowd, playing it cool, but Simone is pretty sure they only travel in loud, obnoxious hockey-bro-lovin’ packs.

It’s actually kinda weird, and super-annoying, and Simone doesn’t realize she’s letting her irritation distract her until cute guy taps her shoulder.

“Uh, are you okay?” he asks.

“What?” Simone says, dropping down from her tip-toes; she’d thought she’d caught a glimpse of one of the hockey players over by the girls’ volleyball team.

“You seem… kinda mad,” he says, wary.

“Oh,” Simone says, shrugging. “Resting bitch face, it’s a thing.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“No! I’m not man, really, why would I be? With you here?” she says, trying to be flirty. It doesn’t come naturally. “You were saying, about, uh… your Chem class?”

She smiles widely, and he flinches back.

“I’m gonna get another taco,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward what he probably thinks are the food trucks, but is actually the Pond. “Catch you around, though.”

He walks away, quickly, and Simone watches him go, her face burning. She can’t believe that just happened. She got distracted for like five seconds, and he just—left. What a dick. What a fucking dick.

She looks down, and sees her hands actually shaking with how angry she is.

She walks quickly to the far end of the quad, leaning against one of the big oak trees where she can do a breathing exercise Kelsey found online for her. After a long few minutes of breathing and repeating _calm the fuck down, calm the fuck down_ in her head, her blood pressure goes back to something like normal, and she feels like she’s fit for civilized society again.

Simone decides to find Kelsey. She and her boyfriend are probably still attached at the face, but Kelsey’s a good friend, she’ll let Simone hang with them.

She’s picking her way through the crowd of blankets and chairs—the game’s evidently pretty good, more people are watching than not, now—when everyone starts cheering and clapping, louder than they’ve been all night. Simone looks up at the screen, expecting another goal, but instead finds what she’d been looking for all night: the Samwell hockey team.

They’re unmistakable in the crowd: twenty-odd guys taking up two rows in the Falconers rink, all wearing Zimmermann’s Falconers jerseys but waving Samwell red—flags and towels and signs like “ _Marry Me Jack Zimmermann!!_ ”—and screaming their damn heads off.

The camera pans across them and eventually stops right in front of _that_ guy, the blonde boy, because of course it does. He’s cheering just as loud as the rest of them, flushed and bright-eyed, but just as photogenic on video as he was in those photos.

And… well. Simone guesses she can see the appeal. Still not her type, but to each his own.

Plus, it _is_ kinda cool to say she kinda-sorta knows someone famous—to see classmates that she recognizes on the big screen.

Then the screen shows Zimmermann, who’s just gone back to the bench, with his hair all sweaty and gross under his helmet, and his mouth-guard hanging out of the side of his mouth like the heathen he is. At least he still has all his teeth; his teammate beside him does not.

Zimmermann doesn’t seem to know he’s on camera, because he’s just staring at the ice with a blank, dumb-jock, lights-on-but-no-one’s-home expression—and yeah, maybe he’s focused on catching his breath or whatever, fine, but given that’s his _usual_ expression, Simone isn’t given him the benefit of the doubt.

But then he glances up. They must be showing the Samwell team and the blonde boy on the Jumbotron, because he does an immediate double-take. Zimmermann’s teammate elbows him teasingly as he blinks, and then he gives this shy, crooked little grin and—

Damnit, Simone is not allowed to think Jack Zimmermann is adorable. She won’t.

Fortunately, the livestream cuts away to the announcers: two old guys who start talking collegiate sports and comradery, how great it is that Samwell students came to support their old captain, how great hockey is, how sports _blah blah back-patting blah._  

Simone rolls her eyes and is properly annoyed again. It’s not difficult—stupid Jack Zimmermann and his stupid hockey team are the reason she isn’t getting any and they aren’t even _here._

She stomps over to Kelsey and resolves never to think about hockey ever again.

 

 

* * *

 

**II.SPRING C**

This resolution lasts for most of the year, and Simone is happy. Well, not completely happy, there are other people in the world that piss her off just as much as the hockey-bro-who-must-not-be-named, after all, but you get the point.

Then comes Spring C, which is one of the few school functions Simone actually, genuinely loves. She’s got her finals in the bag and a fucking awesome internship for her senior seminar next year, and she’s ready to let loose. She’s hanging with a group of girls that are actually, genuinely not assholes, and life is great. They’re dressed to kill and laughing at the stupidest things as they stagger arm-in-arm from one post-concert party to the next, and Simone’s the perfect amount of drunk to go with it, not paying attention to where they end up next.

That is, until Simone finds herself standing in a crowded room, and someone bumps into her, hard enough to nearly knock her over.

“Hey, fuck off!” she says, only a teeny bit slurred.

The jerk is already gone, but the guy she fell into has a hand steadying her shoulder, at just the angle so she’s got a perfect view of his gorgeous bicep and the hot tat wrapped around it.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Mmm,” she says.

The guy looks out over the crowd. “Dude didn’t even turn around. So not chill.”

Simone turns, too, more out of drunken mimicry than anything. But being knocked over sobered her a bit, and as her eyes drift around the room they catch on the Canada flags on the wall, the panties pinned to the bulletin board, the sheer amount of _bro-ness_ surrounding her.

This isn’t just any frat house.

“Fuck me,” she says.

“Uh, what?” the tat-guy says. 

“I’m dead. Dead an’... hell,” she says. 

“Yo,” he says. His hand hovers like he wants to steady her again. Probably because she’s swaying on her feet. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Don’ touch me,” she says, stepping back and clutching her red cup closer. She looks him up and down. “You,” she says, slowly, accusingly, enunciating…ly. “ _You_ are on the hockey team.”

“Yeah? This is our Haus.”

“You suck,” she says.

“ _Yo_ ,” he says, wounded.

“I don’ care how pretty your face is.” she clarifies. “You—hockey—suck. Sucks.”

“Dude, you are wasted.”

“ _’m not your dude!_ ” she says. She looks around, but doesn’t see any of her friends. Fuck. “I gotta go.”

She pushes her way through the crowd, but it’s like every room she enters there’s _another_ beer pong table, and this is her worst nightmare. That nice boozy lightheaded feeling she had going has turned into an unsettling dizziness that makes it difficult to stomach the sight of so much salmon-colored men’s clothing in one room.

She keeps wandering until she finds a space where there aren’t as many people and she feels like she can breathe again. She leans against the wall and puts her red cup against her forehead.

She opens her eyes, and _that fucking guy_ is in front of her.

He’s not just in front of her, he’s in front of her in a baby-blue apron and oven mitts, holding a—is that a _muffin tin_?—and seriously, did someone slip something into her drink when she wasn’t looking??

“Are you alright?” he says, and it’s all gentle and concerned and _Southern._ What even. 

“How—what’re _you_ doin’ here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, this is _my_ kitchen. Do I know you?”

She pushes off the wall. With her heels, she’s got an inch of height on him. She puts her finger in his face, and he takes a half-step back. “I know you.”

“Um?”

“You and your… your stupid face, it’s just…” She runs her free hand through her hair. Her face feels hot. “Why is it so… _ugh_.”

“Darlin, do you need to sit down?”

“No,” she says, petulant.

“Uh-huh,” he says, but he’s already got a hand on her arm, guiding her into a kitchen chair. Simone slumps, curling over so her arms and head rest on the tabletop. It’s so smooth and nice. 

Her red cup is pulled out of her unresisting hand, and she looks up in time to see him sniff at it, wrinkle his nose, and then set it on the countertop. “Good lord, that’s strong.”

“Y’re apron’s strong,” she shoots back.

He looks over, amused. “Why thank you. I think. Now, how are you feeling? Nauseous at all?”

Simone shakes her head slowly, and when she’s done, he’s sitting across from her, sliding a plate between them. In the middle of the plate is probably the most stupid-cute little pie she’s ever seen.

“What.”

He sets out two forks. “Go on. Don’t doubt the sobering power of pie.” She hesitates, and he adds, “Better eat quick, as soon as the rest of the Haus realizes there’s a batch fresh from the oven, we’ll be overrun with drunk, hungry hockey players.”

Simone shudders in horror, and picks up the fork. The boy smiles as she reaches out, fork sinking smoothly into the golden-crisp crust. It isn’t until she pulls back, a bite of soft dough and gooey filling perched precariously on the tongs, that she realizes it’s a raspberry pie.

Simone fucking _loves_ raspberry.

She takes her bite and it melts on her tongue, still a little warm from the oven. It’s so good she wants to hurt something. She moans loud and indecent but she doesn’t care.

“Goodness,” the guy says. “I take it that hit the spot?”

“This s’better than sex,” she says, then clarifies, “Some sex. Sex’s still r’lly fuckin’ good.”

He laughs, pink-cheeked, and Simone is weirdly proud of herself for that.

She devours the rest of the mini pie in a few bites. Bereft of more pie, she sets down the fork and leans her cheek against her hand. She watches as the guy takes the plate over to the sink and washes it, right there. Then he grabs pours a glass of water and brings it to her.

“Drink up.”

“Ugh.” Simone scrunches her nose but takes a sip. “Where’s yours?”

He picks up a beer can and wiggles it before taking a small sip. “I’m taking it easy.”

“S’boring,” she says.

“If you’d seen me at last Spring C, you’d know why. It was fun and all, but Lord! I think I was sick for a week. I didn’t bake for days. I’ve no desire to repeat that sorry performance. Besides, someone has to take care of y’all and empty the Haus in the morning, especially with Shitty gone—”

He stops suddenly and takes a quick drink. Simone’s confused. “Wha’s shitty?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. How’re you feeling now, darlin?”

“You’re so… _nice,_ ” she says, marveling. “It makes s’much sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“He likes your face _so much._ ”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“’m serious. Him. With your face. S’everywhere.” she says, gesturing wide and sloshing water on her hand. “Oops.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says, which is _annoying,_ because Simone knows what she’s talking about. It’s so _fucking_ obvious. Why is he not getting this?

She pushes out of her chair and wobbles toward him. “Zimm-man! I mean, Zimm—Zimmimermann. Fucking— _hockey guy._ ”  

The guy’s mouth falls open. “You know Jack?”

“Exactly! _So many photos._ ”

He stares at her blankly for a moment, before his eyes widen. “Oh! Did you take photography with him last year? I know he really enjoyed that class, though you wouldn’t know it if you didn’t know him well! That boy’s so serious. But goodness, he took his camera everywhere after that. Photography seems like so much fun, I was thinking of taking it next year—”

He keeps babbling and he’s smiling and his voice is all-pitched like he’s trying too hard to be happy about that stupid photography class, but that is _not the point_ Simone is trying to make.

“No! God—” she stops, licks her lips. They’re so chapped, gross. “It’s—ugh. Your face? He loves your face _so much._ ”

And looking back on it, Simone doesn’t know what she was expecting to happen—but no, fuck that, she totally knew what she wanted. Because Jack Zimmermann took a fuckton of pictures of _this guy,_ and maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t, but at the end of the day, Zimmermann and Simone and eighteen other people spent an entire semester together, and no one ever got him to admit it. But Simone _knew._

If she could get him to admit it—to say that he, too, knew about the pictures; that yes, it _was_ weird… then maybe, just maybe, Simone would stop feeling that itch in her fingers that made her want to throttle something every time Zimmermann’s name came up.

So yeah, Simone was expecting _validation._ Instead, she doesn’t get much of anything.

Because the moment she says it, the guy’s smile disappears, and so does all the color from his face. He turns around and shoves his hands into the oven mitts, and opens the oven door.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, keeping his back to her as he pulls out another tray of mini-pies.  

“Nonono.” She grabs his arm, turns him around so they’re eye-to-eye. “ _Soooo_ many photos f’you, it was like—” She raises her hand over her head to indicate Zimmermann’s priorities. “Hockey,” she says, then she drops her hand a tiny bit, “ _You_.” Then she drops it to her waist. “Geese.”

He sets his jaw like he’s angry or something, and Simone knows what that’s like. But she’s also thinking, _finally,_ now he gets it! He’s gonna agree with her.

But after a tense moment, he swallows and ducks his head. His face gets the _saddest_ expression, and wow, Simone feels like a dick.

“That’s real kind of you to say,” he says, even though it _wasn’t_. She doesn’t know why, but ugh, it _totally_ wasn’t. 

“But—”

“Jack’s a good friend, he took a lot of pictures of the team last year.”

“ _But_ —”

“And anyway, you’re very drunk, I think it may best if we find your friends, okay?”

And that is _not_ how Simone wanted this conversation to go, but her head is still fuzzy despite that fucking awesome pie, and when he steers her out of the kitchen, with his hand all gentleman-like at the small of her back, she doesn’t resist it.

The next few minutes are a blur, and then suddenly she’s surrounded by her friends as they drunkenly grab at her and cry over how they “thought they lost her” and “bitch, don’t do that to us again!”

Then Simone says, “Ugh, I feel sick,” and that mobilizes them. They immediately clear a path through the crowd, and guide her toward the bathroom. When she says, “No, jus’ wanna go home,” they switch direction toward the front door.

They’re good at looking out, these girls.

They do pass the kitchen on their way out, and Simone hesitates for just a second, swaying slightly and wondering if she should go back in and say something to that guy. But when she looks over, all she can see is a room is full of giant jock monsters destroying those fucking beautiful mini-pies, and nope, fuck that. She lets the girls usher her away.

Walking back to her dorm, Simone imagines finding him, when it’s later and she doesn’t feel like her brain is rattling loose in her head. She leans heavily on Kelsey and mumbles increasingly devious plans on how best to infiltrate the hockey hellhole without running into any of the other douchebros.

Kelsey laughs and pats her head, but Simone’s _determined_ , she’s going to set it straight. She’s going to make the cute little blond boy stop looking so sad, because no one should look so sad. Especially cute guys. Who make awesome sex pie.

Simone has all these grand plans. But first, she has to sleep. Sleep is important.

She arrives back at her dorm room, throws back the two Tylenol Kelsey gives her, and passes the fuck out.

 

 

The thing about grand plans is that when you make them drunk, you don’t always remember them the next morning. So, Simone is vaguely aware she was probably an asshole to someone, but she doesn’t _remember_ being an asshole. She doesn’t remember _anything_ after the concert itself, and even that’s a little fuzzy.

Kelsey says she didn’t get in a fight with anyone, fists or otherwise, so that’s an improvement over the last two Spring Cs, at least.

“You did kinda disappear in the hockey house for a bit,” she mentions over their favorite post-drunk-Belgian-waffle-brunch.

“ _What_ ,” Simone hisses.

“It’s fine, we found you eventually,” Kelsey says.

“Why? Why would you take me there?? Why would you let me…?” Simone pales. “I didn’t, like—” She can’t even finish the thought.

Kelsey shakes her head as she shoves a giant chunk of waffle into her mouth. “Nu’uh,” she says. “You were hanging out in the kitchen with that guy—you know the one.”

Simone narrows her eyes. “Which one?”

Kelsey grins. “The cute shortie. The one you’re obsessed with.” 

“I am not obsessed with him!” she shouts, and then wants to die when people actually look over. Her temples throb. She lowers her voice and glares at Kelsey. “I am not. Jack _Zimmermann_ is obsessed with him, that’s the _point._ ”

“Whatever you say,” Kelsey shrugs.

“Ugh you’re the worst,” Simone says, and drowns her sorrows and waffle in more syrup.  

 

 

* * *

 

**III. GRADUATION**

Simone finishes her time at Samwell like a fucking _boss._ Her senior internship has turned into an actual job offer, which it’s _great,_ because college wasn’t always easy for Simone, and it definitely wasn’t always fun. She starts packing three weeks before graduation and ignores Kelsey’s pointed and sometimes hurt comments like, “Come oonnnn, Simone, that can _wait,_ ” and “Whatever, you know you’ll miss me.” 

And like, of course she’ll miss living with Kelsey. But the rest? Simone’s glad she went to Samwell, yeah, but sometimes, for all the university tried to be chill and ~accepting, it was still Ivy League and pretentious as fuck. She’s sick of eating in the Commons and she hates writing essays and she especially hates the incoming freshman, who seem to get dumber every year.

So no, she doesn’t think she’ll miss it at all. She’s ready to get the fuck on with her life—which is why she’s abso-fucking-lutely blindsided by graduation morning, when she and Kelsey are posing for pictures in their cap and gowns.

Simone’s face hurts from smiling because it’s not natural, and then Kelsey grabs her hand and squeezes and—boom, that’s all it takes. Between one picture and the next, Simone burst into tears.

They’re not the small, tight-throat, blurry-eyed tears that happen sometimes when Simone gets too worked up over sometime too personal, either. It’s like, a legit _sob,_ and she immediately covers her face with her hands, because she’s humiliated but also because she spent way too much fucking time on her makeup this morning to ruin it now. 

Kelsey’s parents look _so_ uncomfortable, but Simone’s mom and brother are immune to her outbursts and just rolls their eyes—which, like, thanks for the support, assholes.

But Kelsey is there, with her arms around Simone, patting her back and saying “there, there” all condescending. Simone’s voice cracks on her reply, “Fu- _ck_ you,” and then they’re both laughing and tearing up and it’s all good.

So maybe Simone will miss it a bit. Kelsey’s moving back to Colorado to take a year off before grad school, and she says she’ll only apply to schools back east, but that’s still a year of only texting and video-chatting and that’s going to be hard. Kelsey is her best friend—her only _real_ friend, if she’s being honest.

So, fine, okay, maybe it’s going to fucking suck.

But Simone is a big girl, so she takes a deep breath, tells herself to _calm the fuck down,_ takes a minute to touch up her eyeliner, and heads over to the graduation ceremony.

 

 

Graduation is, as expected, one last gauntness of bullshit. The ceremony itself is like arm day at the gym, between all the bored clapping and holder her hand up to block the glare of the sun of the Pond. At least Kelsey is nearby, sitting two rows directly in front of her, so they can turn and make faces at each other when the speeches go on too long, or when the Dean calls out the names of people they know or don’t like.

When Simone walks across the stage to get her diploma she gets an average applause, but in the beat of silence after, there’s a loud, _“Get it, bitch!”_ from Kelsey, which makes people chuckle and the Dean’s face twitch.

Simone bites her lip as she shakes his hand and hurries off stage. Right before she gets to her seat, she leans over to smack Kelsey’s cap. It doesn’t fall off because Kelsey bobby-pinned that shit solid, but Simone hopes it pulled out a few hairs.

Kelsey sticks out her tongue and says nothing—but she gets Simone back, later, when _that guy_ walks across the stage.

“Eric Richard Bi—” the Dean says, and Simone does _not_ strain to hear his full name, because it’s not like she’s thought about it a lot.

Only sometimes. Not even sometimes. Like, almost-never.

It’s been easy, too, because the past year, the hockey team has been quiet. With Jack Zimmermann gone, there was no famous face to put on like, every fucking issue of The Daily ever. The playoffs at the end of their junior kinda kept them relevant, but they only made it to semifinals, or whatever hockey has. Point was, they didn’t _win_ -win. So nobody cared.

Sometimes hockey would be mentioned, and she’d think about the guy _,_ in that “oh hey whatever happened to him” or “probably should know his name by now” kind of way.

So now she thinks, here’s her chance, right? She can lay at least one irritating college memory to rest.

But no.

Eric Richard B- _something_ will have to do, because the rest of his name is drowned out by earsplitting screams, so loud that Simone is for a moment concerned someone is actually dying _,_ but then she remembers oh right, fucking _hockey._

Sure enough, when she turns to look, along with everyone else with ears, there’s a huge group of guys in the student section of the audience, even though Simone _knows_ some of those motherfuckers have graduated.

One of them, a guy with a mustache straight out of a 70s porno, actually brought a _megaphone,_ because the hockey team is the literal worst. He’s not even using it to say anything, just amplifying the sound of their insane bellowing.

Simone turns her back on them and so, unlike most of her classmates around her, doesn’t miss the sight of Eric Richard B- _what the fuck ever_ apologizing to the Dean before hurrying off the stage, bright as a tomato and beaming.

And of course though all that, Kelsey is staring right at her, looking delighted.

 _“Your boyfriend,”_ she mouths, and Simone rolls her eyes. Kelsey bats her eyes and makes a kissy face and Simone gives her the finger.

The guy next to Simone is twisting in his seat, craning his neck to look at the hockey bros. “I think Jack Zimmermann is here!” he says, excitedly.

Kelsey cackles.     

Simone’s really gonna miss that girl.

 

 

After the ceremony ends, they linger on the Quad for a ridiculously long time. Simone’s mom refuses to leave until they have “enough” pictures, like the thousand-and-ten she’s already taken don’t count.

Kelsey and her parents take off, and they’re all going to meet up for breakfast tomorrow morning, so it’s not goodbye just yet, but without her, the strain of all the pomp and circumstance comes crashing down on Simone, and suddenly she’s just fucking _done_ with today.

“I swear to god, Mom, if you take one more picture, my soul is going to leave my body.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Simone,” her mom says, her thumb grinding hard on the disposable camera’s click-wheel.  

“I am not being fu—” she stops, revises, “—being dramatic!”

Her mom raises an eyebrow, that expression that clearly says she knows Simone’s shit stinks but won’t call her on it, this time. Simone has _used_ that expression, and is horrified to realize this is it, the beginning of the slow slide into becoming her mother. Jesus.

“Let’s take a few more by the Well and then we’ll be done. Happy?” her mom says.

“Fine!” Simone snaps back. She turns on her heel and stomps over to the Well.

There’s a group of people already taking photos, so she stands with her arms crossed, one foot tapping the ground, willing them all to drop dead so she can get this over with.

“Hi, are you waiting? Sorry for hoggin’ the Well, we’re all done!” a voice says.

Simone turns, and can’t even find it in her to be surprised when it’s him. _That guy_. Eric.

He’s stepped away from the Well, and a group of people Simone figures must be his family and non-hockey friends, given that they’re standing quietly, calmly, like normal, decent human beings.

The first thing she notices is that he’s taller, or at least, he doesn’t like he’s drowning in his graduation robes, like most height-challenged people, Simone included. His hair has grown out of that stupid faux-preppy undercut, and he looks… kinda hot? If Simone’s being honest?

She stares at him and he stares back, smiling politely, until he says, “Sorry, have we met before? You look a bit familiar.”

And that’s so true but not-true, it’s laughable, but Simone can’t exactly explain the whole story, can she? “Um… maybe?” she says, wincing when it comes out more dismissive than she meant. 

He doesn’t seem too bothered, though, waving a hand at her. “Oh, ignore me, then. I feel like I know everyone I’ve run into today. We haven’t been graduated a day but I’m already gettin’ nostalgic! Can you believe it’s over?”

“Yeah. Congrats,” Simone says, and wants to punch herself. _Congrats,_ she says, like a fucking dumbass, because who says that? No one says that. “But, um. You look familiar too? Maybe we met at a… party or something?”

“Oh! Maybe,” he says. His nose scrunches up, and he laughs. “But dependin’ on the party, it might be best left forgotten.”

Simone snorts, because ain’t that the fucking truth, but then—

“Bitty,” she hears. They both turn, and none other than _Jack Zimmermann_ jogs over to them. “Hey, we’re ready. Your parents are getting the car.”

“Oh! Right, sorry,” he says.

Zimmermann glances at her, then does a double-take. “Oh. Hi. Simone, is it?”

Simone’s mouth drops open, because the guy’s a hockey superstar now, so how? Why?? Does he remember her name?? “Uh, yeah,” she says.

Eric looks between them. “You two know each other?”

“We had class together senior year,” he says, “My senior year,” he adds. 

Eric looks pointedly at Simone’s graduation robes. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he drawls, and Zimmermann huffs.

“It was that photography class, with Mildegras,” Zimmermann says to her. 

“Yeah,” she says. Then, because she can’t help herself, “Kinda hard to forget.”

Eric’s head swivels toward her, a thoughtful expression on his face, and for the first time Simone _really_ wishes she remembered what they talked about that night last year.

Zimmermann just nods. “Yeah. It was a good class,” he says, and his hand drifts up, unconsciously adjusting the strap on his shoulder. Simone narrows her eyes, because she _knows_ that kind of strap, and she starts to look down, even though she really shouldn’t because it’s just going to piss her off, yet she still can’t stop herself and—

Yep. There it is. A freaking Canon EOS 5D, brand new. A camera Simone would _kill_ for. She can’t tell from here, but Simone would bet a kidney that it’s a Mark III, worth more than three month’s rent on her new apartment.

 _Ugh_.

She bites the inside of her cheek hard, but before she can actually draw blood, her mother and brother arrive, because the universe has a cruel sense of timing.

“Hello,” her mom says politely, and _god_ , she’s still got her plastic disposable camera up and poised to shoot. Simone buries her clenched fists into the folds of her robes.

“Oh shit,” her brother says, “Jack Zimmermann! I’m a huge fan.”

“ _Ray,_ ” she hisses.

“What?” Ray says, holding out his hand to Zimmermann. “You here for graduation, dude? I saw you guys play the Islanders last month. That hatty was sick.”

Zimmermann shakes his hand, smiles slightly. “Yeah. Thanks. It was a good game.”

Simone rolls her eyes because, seriously, does this guy know any descriptive words other than “good”? Then she looks over and startles, because Eric’s rolling his eyes, too. He catches her looking and winks.

“You never said you knew Zimmermann, sis!” Ray says.

“We had class together, so what?” Simone says, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“ _Simone_ ,” her mom says sharply. Then, more softly, “We should get a picture.”

“Mom! No,” Simone cries. “They were just about to go, right? Weren’t you ready to go?” she says to them.

“I don’t mind,” Zimmermann shrugs. 

Ray fist pumps and, before Simone can react, wraps an arm over her should and drags her over to Zimmermann, squishing her between them.      

Simone’s mom raises her camera and _tsks_. “Smile, Simone. It won’t hurt you.”

Eric lifts his hand, like he’s trying to hide a laugh. Simone takes back every nice thing she’s ever thought about him.

Simone grimaces, waiting for this stupid moment to be _over,_ but her mom keeps tapping at the button and nothing’s happening. She frowns.

“Shoot, I’m out of film,” she says, and starts digging through her purse. “One second, I think I have another camera…darn… ”  

Beside her, Zimmermann shifts. “We can use mine,” he says. He looks down at Simone, and god, he’s tall, what a jerk. “I probably still have your school email address, I can email it to you?”

Simone opens her mouth to say _please don’t_ but Ray beats her to it, fist pumping again and saying, “Dude, you’re the best!”

That’s when Eric steps up, taking the camera off Jack’s shoulder. “Why don’t I take it, and you can be in it, too, ma’am?” he says to her mom.

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that!” Simone’s mom says, even though she’s blushing and already walking toward them. A few nice words in a nice accent and she’s a total sucker. Gross.  

“I don’t mind at all,” Eric says. “I love gettin’ proof that Jack has friends outside hockey. It’s like findin’ a unicorn.”

“Ha, ha,” Zimmermann says, as Eric gets the camera ready. “That’s a new one. You gonna Tweet that?”

“Shush, you, I’m taking the picture. Say cheesecake!”

“Cheesecake!” Simone’s mom and brother say. Zimmermann smiles, and Simone glares at the camera as if she could set it on fire with her mind.

Afterward, Zimmermann and Eric are clearly ready to go. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” Eric says. “Good luck with everything!”

“You too,” Simone says, grudgingly, because she’s not a total asshole.

“Yeah,” Zimmermann nods. They turn to walk away, but at the least second, Zimmermann turns back. “And, hey. Congrats.”

_Congrats._

Who says that? Jack Zimmermann says that.

Fuck her life.

 

 

The whole encounter is so weird and infuriating and just a fan- _fucking_ -tastic way to end her Samwell career, that Simone doesn’t ask herself until much, much later—far too late, really—just _why_ Jack Zimmermann was at graduation with Eric Richard B- _who the fuck cares,_ hanging out with him and his parents.

The worst part of it all, though?

He actually emails her the picture.

 

 

* * *

 

 **IV.** **BREAKING NEWS**

The thing about moving to a new city is, everything’s _new._ Like, that should be obvious, right? It is. But still, the truth of it doesn’t really sink until Simone has been in Providence for a few weeks.

Because Simone is on her own, for the first time. Sure, she’s living with a roommate, but Simone doesn’t know anyone else in Providence. And, Simone doesn’t meet _new_ people easily. She doesn’t _want_ to meet new people, period. She inevitably ends up hating 99% of them, so what’s the point? 

Instead she throws herself into her job. She’s a junior editor at WPRI-TV, and she works hard, clocks long hours, and its fine, whatever. Until it’s not.

In the spring, she’s temporarily “promoted” to help out Dylan, their terminally overworked Sports Editor, who’s Capital-G Gorgeous but also a condescending prick because, again, _Sports Editor._

She’s helping out because the Falconer’s have made it to the Stanton Cup Playoffs—and yeah, she knows it’s Stanley, but she likes to say it wrong because it pisses Dylan off _so much_ —so her main assignment is to assemble clips for _every game_ , and fuck it if Dylan doesn’t want to include a soundbite from Jack Zimmermann in every single one. So, she’s forced to watch interview after interview of Zimmermann doing his very best to earn an Academy Award for Best Monotone.

She’s never seen someone say, “We’re excited to move forward,” with so little inflection it’s practically _negative excitement._

(She also does whole segment on Georgia Martin, the Falconers GM, after the team loses the Eastern Conference Finals—and now _there’s_ a bitch Simone can get behind, hockey or not. Not that she’ll ever admit that to anyone.)

But she does it, because it’s her job—even if it leaves her fuming, because she hates sports, hates watching sports, and _especially_ hates seeing the ignorant comments typed out by illiterate, troglodyte sports fans on the quality shit she spends hours working on.

After the Cup’s over, Simone goes back to her apartment and doesn’t get out of bed for two days. She watches a lot of Netflix and eats a lot of Doritos.

“ _Girl_ ,” her roommate Monica says, on the third day, leaning in her doorway with arms crossed.

“Don’t judge me,” Simone says, actively trying to sink through the mattress.

She shrugs. “Just making sure you’re alive,” then closes the door again.

The thing is, Simone and Monica aren’t really that close—at least, not like she and Kelsey were. Monica is three years older and works as a nurse. She’s got a boyfriend who’s basically a fiancé in all but name. She hates Italian food.

So, really, they don’t have much in common. But they get along fine, and respect each other’s space. But now, Simone’s bubble of self-pity has been burst, and honestly, she’s sick of wallowing. She’s sick of hating her job, sick of all the bullshit.

So she calls Kelsey. Kelsey listens to her ranting for an hour before cutting her off and tells her, “Jesus, Simone, just _go out._ Get drunk! Get laid! Have fun. As your bestie, I’m telling you, _you need this._ ”

Simone rants some more, but in the end, grudgingly admits she’s probably right.

Which is why, the next time Monica invites her to her boyfriend Logan’s place, she accepts. Monica shrugs and says, “cool,” like it’s no big deal, and yeah, okay, it’s not _really,_ it’s a stupid kickback, but it’s also the first time Simone’s been out in _months_. She’s ready for something to go right.

And god, she _tries._ When they arrive, and everyone is watching a Red Sox game, she bites the inside her check and keeps her mouth shut. She sits with her back to the TV and pastes on a smile. She actually _starts_ a conversation with some of the girls sitting nearby, about a new restaurant in their neighborhood.

Logan pours her a drink, and he makes a mean mojito, so she forgives him for being obnoxiously loud when the Red Sox win. And, thankfully, he mutes the post-game talk show. She focuses on the conversation around her. She sips her drink, and it’s tart on her tongue and warm in her stomach. She starts to loosen up. She actually laughs a few times.

And then.

Then Logan says, “Hey, hold on a sec,” and turns up the volume.

Simone turns just in to catch the tail end of a _BREAKING NEWS!_ graphic, before feed shows a press conference setup, a podium in front of a logo-covered blue backdrop.

“What’s going on?” asks one guy, she thinks his name is Caleb.

“Is it the Red Sox?” one girl asks. Simone doesn’t know her, but she’s got ginger hair and a dumb laugh and is trying _so_ hard to get in maybe-Caleb’s pants, it’s pathetic.

“Nah, those’re NHL logos,” Logan answers, as Simone’s phone buzzes. She checks it, a text from Dylan:

_Turn on espn now.  BIG fukn news!_

She frowns and texts back: _Already watching? What’s going on??_

He doesn’t respond. Simone frowns and sets her phone down. On screen, a reporter is speculating about this “surprise” announcement by the Falconers, but it’s obvious he’s just as clueless as the rest of them. 

A moment later, the press stirs as two people come out of a curtain.  Simone recognizes Georgia Martin right away, and the guy next to her—he’s got a Falconers snapback pulled low, but yeah—Simone would recognize him anywhere, too.

“Who’s that?” Ginger asks.

 _Zimmermann, that’s who,_ Simone thinks. _What now?_

“Zimmy!” Caleb says.

Simone scoffs. “No one actually calls him that.”

Ginger gives her the stink eye, and turns to Caleb, putting a hand on his leg. Simone rolls her eyes. “Who’s Zimmy?” she asks.

“Jack Zimmermann,” Logan says. “He’s Captain of the Falcs.”

“Best center in the League ,” Caleb chimes in.

“He’s also super hot,” Monica says.

“Hey!” Logan says, wrapping his arms around her waist. Monica winks at Simone. Ugh.

“His parents are famous, too,” another girl says. “His mom is my mom’s favorite actress. She’s freaking gorgeous.”

“Logan,” Caleb says, suddenly panicked. “What if he’s getting traded? I haven’t heard—”

“No fucking way,” Logan says. “They almost won the Cup—”

“Yeah but if they need the cap space—”

“Hey, shut up,” Simone says. “It’s starting.”

Surprisingly, this time, they listen. There’s a short moment of silence, filled only by the rapid-fire camera _clicks_ from the press, before Georgia steps up to the podium.

“ _Jack Zimmermann has a statement to make_ ,” she says, “ _Before he does, I’d like to be clear that he is doing so with the full support of the Falconers organization. We will not be taking any questions today, but will be releasing a written statement after the press conference_.”

Then she steps back, still smiling calmly, like everyone in the room isn’t going bug-fuck with curiosity. She nods at Zimmermann, who looks like the same dumb jock he always looks like, until he clears his throat and steps up, unfolding a piece of paper with blink-and-you-miss-it trembling fingers.

 _What the fuck,_ Simone thinks.

And then Zimmermann says, “ _Thank you for coming. This is… not an easy statement to make_.”

“Dude,” Caleb says, “Do you think he’s relapsed? Didn’t he used to do coke?”

He’s immediately shushed by everyone.

“ _For a long time, I thought I wouldn’t say anything at all. I’ve always strived to keep my personal life personal. But… I believe it’s important. For myself. And for other players, who felt denied the opportunity to play in the League, because they were, uh.”_ Zimmermann clears his throat, _“Different.”_

Simone sits up straight, feeling like an electric shock’s gone through her. “Oh my god.”

A couple people glance at her. “What?” Monica says.

“ _Since joining the Falconers, I’ve spoken about my experience having an anxiety disorder as a professional athlete.”_ He takes a deep breath. “ _What I haven’t spoken about is that… that a factor for my anxiety has been my sexuality.”_

Zimmermann pauses, like he’s waiting for the reaction to die down—because of course there’s going to be a fucking reaction, this is _huge—_ but it’s like the press room has been stunned silent.

He soldiers on, keeping his eyes down as he reads meticulously from the paper in his hand.

 _“I identify as bisexual. I’ve had relationships with both men and women in the past, and it’s not an issue, for me. But I worried how people would react if this, uh, were to be known. I wondered if I’d be allowed to play. ”_ He takes another breath, swallows. _“However. I’ve been out to my teammates, for some time. They’re the best team a guy could ask for. It’s never affected whether we win or lose.”_

_“More importantly, they know that my… my partner is a man. They’ve supported my decision not to hide that relationship any longer. So, I’m not. Hiding. But this isn’t a publicity stunt. It’s our lives. My partner and I still value our privacy, and hope you will, too.”_

For the first time, he looks up, and Simone can _feel_ the dam burst. There’s a short burst of audio feedback, followed by the utter chaos that is a room full of reporters realizing they have the biggest story of the fucking _decade_ standing ten feet away from them, and _he’s not going to be answering questions._

That doesn’t seem to stop them. The reporters are screaming at Zimmermann, but he’s unfazed. _“Thank you,”_ he says, because he’s still Canadian as fuck, and then he’s gone, disappearing behind the curtain before anyone has time to blink. The feed cuts back to a studio, where the talking heads ramble over each other.

In the apartment, though, it’s still quiet. No one seems to know what to say—or wants to be the one to break the silence.

Simone doesn’t have that problem.

“Are you _shitting_ me?”

“Simone—” Monica says.

“He just came out of the closet, right? He’s fucking some guy, and he made an _ESPN announcement_ so everyone one would know about it? That’s what happened—I’m not making that up?!”

“Hey,” Logan says. “Okay, he’s not straight, so what?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Simone snaps back. She wants to stand up and pace. She wants to tear out her hair.

Her phone buzzes with another series of texts, but it’s not Dylan, its Kelsey:

_!!!!!!!!!_

_SIMOMESIMOENSIMOONNEE_

_OMG_

Simone throws her phone down and groans, “Fucking _god,_ I hate him so much. Fuck Jack Zimmermann.”

“ _Simone,_ ” Monica says, firmly.  

Simone turns, and suddenly notices that everyone in the room is staring at her. Ginger is still glaring, and Caleb is shifting uncomfortably. The girl sitting next to her has actually _scooted away from her._

“What?” Simone bites out.  

“Um, maybe nobody wants to hear you gay-bash Zimmermann?” Ginger says.

Simone’s mouth falls open. “Wait. I’m not—no, _Jesus_ , I don’t hate him because he’s gay!”

“Bisexual,” Ginger corrects.

“Bisexual, gay, trans, whatever—I don’t give a shit,” she cries. “I’m not a fucking homophobe!”

No one looks like they believe her. And that’s just—fucking _peachy_. What the fuck. These assholes don’t even know her.

“I went to Samwell University!” she says. “I went to Samwell _with_ Zimmermann!”

“If you say so,” one girl says, arms crossed, and oh, okay, if that’s how it’s going to be, Simone is _not_ afraid to throw down right now.

“Listen, bitch—”

“Hey!” Monica says, standing up. “Okay, calm down, everyone. Simone, chill. You know how you sounded, don’t blame anyone else.”

Simone has never wanted to _not be where she is_ so much than in this moment, but she curls her fingers into the couch cushions and takes a deep breath. _Calm the fuck down, girl. Calm down._

“Sorry! Okay? But you guys—you don’t get it,” she says, crossing her arms. “At Samwell, the hockey team—it’s a thing, okay? They’re all total bros, and they’re the worst. _Everyone_ knows it. And Zimmermann was like, King of the hockey frat bros, ok?”

She looks around again, and people look a little more relaxed—curious, even.

The girl next to her has leaned back in. “So… did you actually _know_ him?”

“ _Yes!_ I sat next to him in class, for fucks sake. I know him, and I can’t _stand_ him.”

“I’ve heard he was a really cool guy,” Logan says, warily.

“Yeah,” Caleb says. “What’ve you got against Zimmy, huh?”

And the answer sits there, on the Simone’s tongue, right behind her pursed lips— _Because I knew it! I KNEW he had a crush on his teammate, I KNEW something was weird about those photos, about him and fucking Eric—but no one fucking believed me! Not even Jack Zimmermann!!_

But how can she say that to these guys, who are practically strangers? She can’t. Not without sounding like a fucking crazy person.

Instead, she takes another deep breath. _Calm._ “I just hate hockey, okay? It’s 2018, and it’s bullshit that he’s had to keep it a secret and then turn around and make a big stupid fucking announcement.”

There’s a long pause, so she rolls her eyes and adds, “It’s like, the principal of the thing.”

And that, for whatever reason, seems to break the tension. People are nodding along, like she’s said something ~deep, like they hadn’t just been ready to burn her at the stake two minutes ago. Fucking hypocrites.

Ginger goes, “Oh yeah, it’s _so_ not cool.”

“So not cool,” Caleb echoes, swinging his arm around her shoulder so she can snuggle up to him.

Simone refrains from gagging. She refrains from saying anything at all, actually, and the discussion goes on as if she’d never said a thing, everyone talking about how _homophobia sucks, he’s so brave, what will happen next, yadda fucking ya._  

She downs her mojito, and looks down at her phone again. Her entire lock screen shows nothing but messages from Kelsey.

“I’ve got to make a call,” she says, standing up. As she walks toward the kitchen, people back away to let her pass.

She spends the next hour on the phone, bitching and gossiping and catching up with Kelsey. By the time they hang up, everyone in the apartment is either beyond wasted, has fucked off to hook up, or won’t look Simone in the eye.

She calls it a night and takes an Uber home. So much for “having fun.”

Thanks Jack Zimmermann, ruining everything yet again.

 

 

But also, like.

Good for him, for coming out. She hopes people don’t give him too much shit.

…He’s still the worst, though.

 

 

* * *

 

**+1. REUNION**

After his coming out, the Zimmermann Story is all anyone can talk about, sports fan or no. She overhears people gossiping about on the streets and in coffee shops; when she’s waiting for the bus or in the gym, before her kickboxing class begins.

What everyone seems to have overlooked, but Simone has _always_ known, is that Zimmermann is like, the opposite of a tabloid sensation. His announcement stirred the pot, sure, but Zimmermann himself is the most basic, boring hockey bro on the planet.

The only real news that actually comes from Zimmermann himself are pap photos of him and his boyfriend holding hands while doing things like _gasp!_ going to the grocery store.

It does end up being a pretty intense moment when Simone realizes said boyfriend is none other than Eric Bittle, aka Eric Richard B-whatever _,_ aka _that guy,_ blond boy, cute shortie, the hockey not-bro who has the audacity to keep growing more attractive the older he gets.

When she sees the first AP photo of them together and realizes who he is, that Zimmermann and _that guy_ are now _those fucking guys—_ well, she’s pretty sure she blacks out. She opens the file, and stares, and the next thing she knows the girl at the desk next to Simone’s is asking if she’s okay, because she hasn’t moved in a while.

But Simone doesn’t get mad. She’s got a stress ball in a death grip in her hand and a lot of emotions swirling in her chest, and she’s lost like, four minutes of time—but she’s not mad.

Overall, she thinks she handles it pretty well. She forwards the photo on to Kelsey, which she’s not technically allowed to do, but fuck it, this is important, and Kelsey leaves her like ten ear-splitting voicemails, but that’s it.

It’s like she’s growing up or something, which is a whole other level of weird.

Her producers at WPRI still do their best to milk the Zimmermann Story, running the gambit of speculation-as-reporting and Tweet-us-your-bullshit segments and, finally, drudging up stuff about his overdose.

That’s the last straw for Simone. Well, that, and Dylan cornering her in the break room to make a pass at her _and_ inform her that he’d put in a request for her to be his permanent assistant—to which she literally laughs in his face.

She quits that day. Two months later, the Zimmermann Story is out of the local news cycle, and Simone gets a job at a private production company. The office is fifteen minutes from her apartment, her coworkers are totally chill, and she even gets _benefits._ Like, not just the shitty bare-minimum benefits, either, but dental and bonus opportunities and a 401k plan.

Suddenly, being a grown-ass adult doesn’t seem so off-putting.

Life settles. Simone gains seniority, gets a couple raises. She makes friends, and yeah, she loses some, but the ones that matter stick around. She has a few relationships, but mostly keeps it casual, and she’s more than fine with that.

Years pass.

It could be worse.

 

 

When Simone first moved to Providence, she knew that technically, Jack Zimmermann lived there too, because duh, that’s where his hockey team is. She also knows Providence is, unfortunately, a Big Hockey Town. But Providence is also just a Big Town in general; she figures there’s zero chance of her running into Zimmermann himself.

Then Simone receives an email from Kelsey: a forward of information for their 10 Year Samwell Class Reunion.

 ** _NO_** _._ Simone sends back, immediately. Kelsey’s reply is just as swift:

_> :( _

Simone rolls her eyes and doesn’t bothering responding.

Neither of them had gone to their 5 Year because Simone _hadn’t wanted to,_ and Kelsey was like beached-whale levels of pregnant at the time. This time, it’s different, because it’s been over a year since they’ve seen each other in person, ever since Kelsey’s husband Mark took a job in Seattle. And yes, Simone is forever bitter at him for taking her further away. She only gives him some slack, very grudgingly, because he is partially responsible for bringing Simone’s goddaughter into the world, and Alysa is actual perfection in tiny human form.

So the idea of Kelsey and Alysa coming to visit? Awesome. But Simone wants to see them _without_ having to also sit through boring Banquets and mingle with a bunch of assholes she barely remembers.

It has nothing to do with Eric Bittle or Jack Zimmermann, swear to god. The thought doesn’t even cross her mind, until one day Kelsey whines at her over the phone, “ _Please,_ Simone, I want to run into Jack Zimmermann and ask him to kiss my baby.”

Simone rolls her eyes. “Your ‘baby’ is five and has infinitely better taste than you. She’d be more likely to kick him in the shins.”

“God, don’t I know it,” Kelsey sighs. “Yesterday she told Mark not to hug her anymore because he’s a boy, and boys are ‘the worst’ now.”

Simone laughs.

“Come ooon, stop,” Kelsey says, even though she’s smiling, Simone can hear it in her voice. “Mark was _so_ upset. God. She gets this from you, you know.”

“Hell yeah she does,” Simone says.  “But, you do remember that Zimmermann wasn’t in our class, right?”

“If Eric Bittle’s there, Jack will be too, they’re always at functions together.”

“Please tell me you don’t still follow him on Twitter,” Simone groans.

“Uh, yeah?” Kelsey says. “I’m still so pissed I didn’t get to see him at graduation. Meeting them at the reunion is the only way I’ll get over it.”

“No, no way,” Simone says. “It’s bad enough that time I got stuck downtown and had to wait for the Zimmermann Parade to pass—”

Kelsey snorts. “Are you still on about that? It’s been a _year,_ Simone.”

“It was traumatic.”

Simone can _hear_ Kelsey’s eye roll. “There was a whole team of hockey players on that bus. And it’s your fault, anyway, you _said_ you knew they were celebrating that day.”

“Yeah, but I figured they’d stay at the Dunkin Arena, not inconvenience the rest of us! They’ve won like two Stanley Cups already, no one cares anymore.”

“Providence does love its hockey,” Kelsey says thoughtfully. “Maybe you should move to Seattle.”

“Ugh, and have to deal with _Schooners_ fans? I’d rather die in a fire.” 

Kelsey scoffs. “Just admit it, Simone, you _love_ hockey. You fucking _loooooove_ Zimmermann.”

“Stop.”

“You’re dying to see him again.”

“ _Stop_.”

“I bet you sleep in his jersey—”

“I swear to fucking god, Kelsey!” Simone says.

Kelsey’s tone turns sly: “Hey, don’t get so worked up, it’s bad for your blood pressure.” 

“You’re the worst. Where’s Alysa? I want to talk to her. She’s a mini-you, but with more charm. And no grey hair.”

“You did not!”

As to be expected, the conversation devolves from there. Zimmermann doesn’t come up again.

In the end, it turns out Mark has a conference in Providence the week before the Reunion, so Kelsey and fam are coming to the East Coast regardless, and going to the reunion switches from being a “definite” to an “eh, maybe? If we have time?”

If Simone is actually very relieved that she won’t end up running into Zimmermann—or any other hockey frat bros, for that matter—she doesn’t mention it.  

 

 

On the Saturday when all her former classmates are probably making god-awful awkward small talk in some stuffy clubhouse, Kelsey, Simone, and Alysa are having a Girls Day in Providence.

They get their nails done and go shopping, where Simone buys Alysa pretty much everything she points at because one, _she can_ , and two, Kelsey started day-drinking mimosas during their manicure, and is just tipsy enough to notice just _how many_ bags Simone is carrying.  

Now, those bags are shoved under a patio table as they have “afternoon tea” at a cute new bistro that just opened up on the river. The bistro doesn’t really serve afternoon tea, but they make do. They order different types of sandwiches and Kelsey cuts them into tiny triangles, which Alysa coos over and eats in tiny adorable bites with her tiny adorable pinkies raised.

They order three cups of black tea, too, but after one sip Alysa wrinkles her nose and says, “Um, no thank you,” which is one of her new favorite phrases. They reorder, one glass of milk and two Pinot Noirs, which they both sip—

“Pinky _up,_ Mommy _,_ ” Alysa reminds them.

“Oops,” Kelsey says, sticking her pinky out as she takes a sip.

Alysa nods in satisfaction. “It’s ladylite _,_ ” she says.

“Lady _like_ , munchkin,” Simone says. “And it totally is. You’ve got the best manners.”

Alysa flashes Simone a bright smile and says, “I know!” and on any other kid that would be so obnoxious, but on her it’s just _so damn precious_.

Simone turns to Kelsey to tease her about humility, but is taken aback to see Kelsey has frozen, wine glass still perched on her lips, like she’s the girl with the jello in Jurassic Park right before the raptors show up.

“Kelsey? What’s wrong?” Simone says, concerned.

Kelsey snaps out of it, nearly spilling wine on herself.

“Mommy?” Alysa asks.

“Ohmygod—Simone,” Kelsey says. She slaps her hand over Simone’s, her eyes wild as they stare at some point over Simone’s shoulder.  “ _They’re here._ ”

“What,” Simone says, even though she suspects—it _can’t_ be, but oh god, what if it _is_ —and there’s a kind of high-pitched whining sound in her head as she turns, and she just _knows—_

It’s Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann, standing by the hostess table. Eric’s reading the menu, Zimmermann is putting their name down. At the bistro. Where Simone is. Right now. _What_.

“Oh god _,_ ” Simone says.

“ _Oh_ _yes,”_ Kelsey breathes. “This is… amazing. Am I dreaming?”

“No Mommy, we’re having tea,” Alysa points out.

Simone sinks down in her seat until she’s nearly the same height as Alysa. Alysa giggles and pats her head. “Maybe they won’t see us,” Simone says.  

“Nuh-uh, this is happening, suck it up,” Kelsey says. She turns to her daughter. “Hey baby, want to meet some of Mommy’s old college friends?”

“They aren’t your friends,” Simone hisses, even as Alysa nods rapidly. Traitor.

“Be right back,” Kelsey says, and actually _gets up_ to wobble over to them.

Simone puts a hand over her face, physically unable to watch this shitshow unfold. “Your mother is an embarrassment,” she tells Alysa.  

“Yeah,” Alysa agrees, before shoving an entire sandwich triangle into her mouth. “ _Who’a’eh?_ ”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Alysa gulps. “Who are they?”

Simone leans in close, whispering, “They’re _boys._ ”

Alysa wrinkles her nose again. “Boys are gross.”

“Yep. And they’re _hockey_ boys. That’s the worst kind of boy.”

Alysa looks skeptical. “Mommy says you like hockey.”

“Mommy _lies_ ,” Simone says. She glances over, and sees Kelsey chatting with _those fucking guys,_ and pointing over at them, and oh, Jesus, now they’re coming over, _what the fuck Kelsey_ —

“ _Ugh_ ,” Simone says, sitting up. “Today was going so well.”

She grabs at her wine glass and takes a deep drink, liquid fortification.

“Simone! Look who it is!” Kelsey says. She’s practically shaking with joy, her grin bordering on manic. Simone is going to punch her in the kidney when this is over.

“Hi,” she says. She stands up, and sticks out her hand, because there is no way in hell she’s going to go in for the casual hug with these motherfuckers. “What a coincidence.”

Eric smiles and lets go of Jack’s hand so they can shake hers. “Right? What’re the odds of runnin’ into y’all on reunion weekend, but in the wrong city?”

“Isn’t that funny?” Kelsey says.

Simone glares at her. “Yeah. Funny.”

“I know we didn’t know each other,” Kelsey says to the two men, “but you know Simone, and she’s always had such _nice_ things to say. I couldn’t resist saying hi.”

“Yeah, good to meet you. And see you,” Zimmermann says.

“Always nice to run into a Wellie,” Eric says.

“Why aren’t you at the reunion?” Simone says, and if it comes out like an accusation, well.

Eric looks up at Zimmermann before replying. “Being honest, I didn’t think it was worth the fuss. We went for Jack’s reunion two years ago, but for me…” He shrugs, and laughs. “Well, you know how the hockey team was. We kinda stuck together.”

“You don’t say,” Simone says dryly.

Eric laughs again. “I didn’t have too many friends outside the team, and even then, most of them weren’t in our class. Don’t tell Ollie or Wicks I said that,” he adds, to Zimmermann.

Zimmermann smirks and shakes his head. “Of course.”

“Anyway,” Eric continues, “almost all the guys still live up around here, so we have get-togethers on our own a couple times a year. That’s enough for me.”

Kelsey sighs wistfully. “How nice. I live in Seattle, which is, y’know, a great city, don’t get me wrong, but I loved living in New England. And I miss this girl,” she says, smiling at Simone and leaning over to bump her shoulder.

Simone knows what she’s doing—she’s trying to make Simone forget it’s her fault they’re making small talk with Jack Zimmermann. It’s so transparent and sappy and… ugh, damnit if it doesn’t work. Only a little bit, though.

“Seattle, eh?” Zimmermann says. When Kelsey nods, he adds, “I’ve been there for games, but we never get to stay long. It seems like a cool place, though. I like the rain.”

“I’m still getting used to it,” Kelsey says. “My husband loves it.”

“What brings y’all to Providence, then?” Eric says.

“We were planning to meet up at the reunion—” Kelsey says.

“ _You_ were planning that,” Simone cuts in.

Kelsey ignores her, “—but then my husband needed to come for work, so we decided to come and stay with Simone for the week instead, see the city, have her show us the sights… maybe catch a Falconers game. My husband loves sports.”

Kelsey winks at Simone. Forget it, she’s back in Simone’s bad graces.

“You live in Providence?” Zimmermann says to Simone.  

“Ever since graduation!” Kelsey answers, before Simone can say anything. Her voice is full of pure innocence and bullshit and she says, “God, it’s _so_ crazy you guy have lived in the same city so long and only _just_ run into each other now! But, I guess, if you had—well, Simone’s so _shy_ , she wouldn’t have said anything!”

Then Kelsey does this laugh that’s really her cackle doing a bad job of disguising itself as a chuckle, and she play-slaps at Simone’s arm and that is fucking _it._ She’s had her fun. Simone opens her mouth, not sure what going to come out of it, but it’s sure as _hell_ not going to be _shy—_ but she’s beaten to it.

“Auntie Simone’s not shy!” Alysa says.

They all turn toward her. “And who’s this?” Eric asks, grinning.

“Oh, this is my daughter, Alysa,” Kelsey says, sufficiently distracted, thank god. “Alysa, this is Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann, we went to school together. Can you say hi?”

Alysa sits up straight. “Hi! I bought a new dress today!”

Both Eric and Jack chuckle at that; even Simone cracks a smile.

“Wow,” Eric says, voice pitched with just the right amount of enthusiasm; the guy obviously knows how to talk to kids. “That must have been fun,” he says.

“It’s blue and pretty and soft!” Alysa says. “Do you want to see?” She doesn’t wait for a response, already reach to pull it out of the bag.

“She’s so cute,” Eric says quietly to Kelsey—but then, to Simone’s surprise, Zimmermann is the one who steps forward to crouch down next to Alysa to get a better look at the dress. He pinches the corner of fabric Alysa offers him and hums thoughtfully.

“This is very pretty,” he says, voice quiet and sincere. “Did you mom buy it for you?”

“No! Auntie Simone did.”

Zimmermann nods, smiling. “That’s nice of her.”

“She’s the best Aunt,” Alysa says. She looks him up and down. “You play hockey.”

“I do,” Zimmermann says.

She grins. “You’re the worst!”

Simone chokes and Kelsey gasps. “ _Alysa_! Apologize right now—”

Zimmermann, though—he actually _laughs._ “It’s fine. Why is that?”

“Boys are the worst,” Alysa says.

“I don’t know,” Zimmermann says, glancing up at Eric. “Some of them aren’t so bad.”

Eric pushes Jack’s shoulder, blushing slightly, and it’s sickeningly sweet, even if Simone can’t help but notice Zimmermann doesn’t budge an inch, his feet firmly planted and the giant muscles in his legs straining against his skinny jeans and—

No, no, no, Simone _is not_ and _will not_ check out Jack Zimmermann’s hockey thighs, no she won’t.

Simone glances at Kelsey, who looks just about ready to swoon at how sickeningly sweet _those fucking guys_ are. For her part, Alysa looks at Zimmermann, then up at Eric, and then back to Zimmermann, and says, with all the scorn her five-year-old heart can muster, “No thank you.”

Simone loves that girl to pieces.

Kelsey, on the other hand, looks mortified. Her face is red, although that could be the mimosas and wine finally catching up with her. “I’m so sorry, she’s in a phase—”

But Zimmermann is evidently unoffendable, thank god, because he just chuckles again. “It’s really fine. We have friends with kids around that age. They’re the same way.”

“If not worse,” Eric snorts. Zimmermann huffs a quiet laugh as he stands and steps back so Eric can wind his arm around his waist. “We have a few more years to go, thank goodness,” Eric says, “Our daughter, Suzie, she’s just turned two, but she can be such a handful, Lord.”

Simone blinks in surprise. They have a kid? Since when??

But Kelsey just nods. “Oh, god, don’t know it. I swear I still have flashbacks to the terrible twos.”

“I’ll just be glad when she’s out of her tantrum stage. Our friends Chris and Caitlin volunteered to babysit, which was so nice of them, and Suzie adores them… _usually_. But she threw such a fit when we dropped her off this morning, I almost called the whole thing off.”

Zimmermann throws his arm over Eric’s shoulders, pulling him tighter to his side. “She’ll be fine,” he says, calmly.

“It’s not Suzie I’m worried about, it’s Chowder!”

“He’ll be fine, too. It’s good practice for him and Farmer, for when the baby comes.”

Eric sighs. “Ugh, I know. I just don’t like it.” 

“The good days are worth the tantrums,” Kelsey says. She reaches over to run her hand over Alysa’s head, pulling her hair back behind one ear. Alysa, once again absorbed in her mini-sandwiches, doesn’t pay her any mind.

Kelsey looks back at the two men. “And, jeez, I don’t if this is like, too weird, but I’ve seen you daughter—I mean, like, pictures and stuff you’ve shared, on Twitter. And she’s _such_ a pretty little girl. She seems so sweet.”

Eric and Zimmermann both beam.

“Aw, thank you,” Eric says, and he starts to say something else, but stops when the hostess calls out, “ _Jack? Party of two? Your table will be ready in a minute!”_

“Oh, that’s us,” Eric says. Then, to Simone, “Before we go, though—have you eaten here before? I’m writing a column for the Providence Journal on all the new mod bistros that are popping up in the city. Any suggestions on what to get?”

Simone blinks in surprise. “Um? I like the, uh, streak frites?” 

Eric smiles. “Great! Thanks. It was lovely catching up with y’all.”

“You too,” Kelsey says warmly. “You have _no_ idea.”

Zimmermann nods to them, then turns to Alysa. “It was nice to meet you, Alysa,” who waves without looking up at him. He chuckles quietly again, waves, and then he and Eric start to walk back toward the hostess—fucking _finally._ Simone feels like she can breathe again. She sucks in a breath and draws back her arm to slap the shit out of Kelsey—except, at the last second, Zimmermann _turns around._

He takes a few steps back toward them. “Hey, if you want tickets to a game, I can get you some.”

“What,” Simone says.

Kelsey shakes her head, “Oh no, I mean, I was just—”

“It’s no problem, we get comp tickets to every game. How long are you in town?”

“Um… next Friday,” Kelsey says, faintly.

Zimmermann nods. “We’re going on the road Wednesday, but if you’re free Monday night, we’re playing the Leafs at the Dunkin Center.”

Kelsey demurs again. “No, we couldn’t ask that, really—”

“ _Really,_ ” Simone says, hands up. “We really, really weren’t asking for—”

“I’d like to,” Zimmermann says, and god damn, how does he still manage to sound so polite while interrupting her? Fucking Canadians. “I’ll leave four tickets at the box office for you guys, under the name Simone. Come only if you can.”

“Oh my god,” Kelsey says. “Mark is going to shit a brick, thank you so much! We’ll _definitely_ be there.”

“Oh god,” Simone says.

“Great,” Zimmermann says. He glances over at Alysa, then back toward Simone. “Maybe it’ll change her mind about hockey, eh? Never too late.”

And then he gives this little happy _smirk_ , like he’s told such a great joke, and he’s such a fucking—he’s just—it’s so fucking stupid, it’s laughable.

So Simone laughs.

She can’t help herself. Everything about this is ridiculous and it just comes bubbling out, not bitter or angry or anything. She’s genuinely fucking amused and it’s horrifying, but it is what it is.

Zimmermann ducks his head, hiding a bigger smile. He says, “Good to see you,” one more time, and then he turns, and he walks away. He falls into step with Eric and tucks him close to his side, slides his arm over shoulders that are just the right height, like they’re made for each other or something equally disgusting like that.

But god fucking damn if Simone can’t finally admit, they _do_ make a good picture as they go.

Simone waits until they’ve disappeared into the restaurant until she falls back into her seat in defeat. She grabs her Pinot and closes her eyes as she takes a long drink. When she sets it down, Kelsey has sat back down across from her, her arms crossed.  

“Okay, so that? Was _freaking_ amazing.”

“Ugh.”

“And _that guy_? Like, _so_ nice.”

Simone drops her head to the table. “I know.”

“Totally adorable. An actual _sweetheart._ ”

“Ugh, _I know_ , I was there, remember?” She groans. “And I never said Eric wasn’t nice.”

“I was talking about _Zimmermann_ ,” Kelsey says. “God, did you see how cute they were together?”

Simone doesn’t bother responding. She saw it. Of course she saw it. It was visible from the _moon._  

“Did you see how he was with Alysa?” Kelsey presses. She leans in, dropping her voice. “Did you see his _ass_?”

“ _Kelsey_ ,” Simone hisses. They both look over at Alysa, who’s started drawing on her placement and is thankfully oblivious.

“How can you hate that? All these years? He’s a like…like… I don’t even know, Simone! He’s just that great. He’s fantastic. My new favorite person, _ever_.”

“Okay, okay, stop,” Simone says. “I get it, okay? He’s a dumb jock, but he grew up to be not an asshat. Is that what you want to hear?”

Kelsey gives her an unimpressed look. “You are so not allowed to hate him anymore.”

“Ugh.”

“Did you hear that sweetie?” Kelsey says to Alysa. “No more hating hockey boys. We love hockey boys.”

Alysa squints up at her mom. “Why?”

“Because Mommy said so.”

Alysa gives her one long look, then shrugs. “Okay.”

Traitor.  

Kelsey shakes her head. “Mark’s going to be so happy,” she says brightly, pulling out her phone.

Simone shoulders slump as she watches Kelsey tap away at her phone. She leans forward and puts on her best sadface—which, admittedly, isn’t that great. “What about my happiness?” she whines.

At that, Kelsey looks up. She reaches forward and puts her hand over Simone’s, and for one bright, shining moment, Simone thinks she’s won. Kelsey’s face is full of love and understanding and she says, “Oh, Simone. As your bestie, your happiness _is_ important to me.”

Simone sighs in relief. And then—

“So I’m telling you: we’re _going_ to that game. We’re _going_ to cheer for Jack Zimmermann.” She looks deep into Simone’s eyes. “And Simone? You’re going to freaking _love_ it.”

Simone stares back at her, and gives up, because god help her, she probably will.

 

 

(She totally loves it. She loves every stupid, fast-paced, fists-flying minute of it, but _like hell_ will she ever admit that. As if she’d ever give Kelsey that kind of ammunition. God. Who do you think she is?)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr as I cry about hockey and boys and hockey boys: [@knightlightly](http://knightlightly.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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